The eyes that stare back.

Jackson gripped his sink for dear life. Its cool porcelain centered him and allowed the world to stop spinning, if only for a moment. The previous night’s liquor weighed heavily on his belly and kept threatening to come back up.

He gazed at the sickly pale figure in the mirror behind his sink. “You’ve got to stop doing this to yourself…” He whispered to his reflection. Every morning he awoke a little weaker, a little frailer, a little more alone. The liquid poison offered respite from loneliness and the day-to-day drudgeries of university life, even if it meant he beckoned his end ever closer.

His stomach made another lurch; he grabbed his belly as if it would do any good and leaned forward until his forehead was touching the mirror’s cool glass surface. He touched a finger beneath his eye. He had never realized how heavy the bags beneath his eyes had gotten.

Jackson scrunched his nose; his own putrid smell started to mix with the unwashed toilet beside him. He balled his fists and glared at the loser staring back at him in the mirror.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He raged, almost hoping for an answer. “Why did you let it get this bad? Why didn’t you ask for help? Why didn’t you take Claire’s advice!”

He punched the wall, his knuckles bled, but the pain hurt less than his reality. “Why are you such a fucking co-” He trailed off. In the mirror, he saw a miniature version of himself blink.

Jackson shook his head. What he saw was obviously impossible, just another symptom of the morning’s hangover playing tricks on him. But he leaned in closer, and there he was again, the miniature version of himself reflected in his pupil smiling while he was not.

The drained from Jackson’s face. “I’ve lost it…” he whispered. He averted his eyes but glanced back every five seconds, yet the mini him lingered. In his eyes, the him he saw was laughing, smiling, dancing, living emotions Jackson hadn’t felt in years. He was wild, free, and worst of all, happy while he himself sank deeper in despair.

Jackson couldn’t look away now; in his eyes, he saw what he could have been. The other him stopped dancing and turned to face him. He extended his hand and smiled as if saying Jackson could be that happy too. He touched a finger to his eyes reflection, he couldn’t stop himself, after drowning for so long someone was extending a rope.

His finger slipped through the glass, it felt as if he plunged into death’s cold grip, but he feared it not. His hand followed, and his arm after that. Soon he was on the other side, free from the pain of alcohol, free from life’s burdens.

Jackson collapsed.


And that’s the first short story done! It’s a little late but things got a bit hectic yesterday, I’ll be back on schedule next week. Personally I like what I wrote here but I think it can be improved a lot, I’ll return to revisit it after a while and change it as I see fit.

A update post will be coming Monday, thanks for reading.

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